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Tony passes through the living room on his way to bed at four in the morning and notices Steve out on the balcony. Tony hesitates, shakes his head, and heads to his room. He gets all the way to his own door before pivoting and heading straight back out to the living room. He throws open the door to the balcony and is hit with a blast of icy air. Steve spins around. He seems startled, which is kind of cool; Tony never gets to startle people. Living with Nat means everyone is always on guard against people appearing from thin air.

And then Tony’s breath makes clouds in the air, and he grimaces. “Okay, nevermind, it is way too fucking cold out here. Do-over in five minutes.”

Steve blinks, and Tony slams the door shut again. Steve watches through the glass as Tony hurries back to his own room.

In five minutes, Tony is once again at the balcony, except that, this time, he’s actually dressed for the weather. He’s also carrying a thermos in his gloved hands. He offers the thermos to Steve, who eyes it warily.

It’s nice. It’s nice, when it’s like this, when they’re talking but not, when neither of them is pushing, when they’ll just let it be nice.

(When Tony will let it be nice.)

Unfortunately, Tony’s whole life has centered around pushing things until they break so that he can either build the broken thing back better or leave it for junk. Tony doesn’t want to break this, not really, but there’s that whole pesky thing about people and their natures, so Tony’s asking what Steve’s doing out here before he can even think to stop it.

Steve frowns, and Tony looks away, towards the New York skyline, and says, “You don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s not--” Steve shifts. “It’s not an unreasonable question or anything. I just couldn’t sleep, is all.”

“Okay,” Tony says, even though there’s something in Steve’s voice that alludes to more. He nods and doesn’t ask because, contrary to popular belief, Tony can shut up, even if it goes against his grain a bit, and he actually honestly really doesn’t want to break this. Not now.

“I have nightmares,” Steve says into the silence of the night. “I guess.”

Tony glances over. Steve is looking down, fiddling with the cap of the thermos. “Have, like, have them frequently?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“PTSD?” Tony asks.

“Probably,” Steve says.

Tony snorts. “Samesies.”

Tony pretends not to notice the way Steve’s eyes are now intent on Tony’s face. “Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asks.

Tony shrugs. “Suit yourself. Do you want to blow something up? I always find that cathartic.” He perks up, but Steve winces. “Okay, not your brand of coping. Got it. Will double-check soundproofing on the lab tomorrow.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Steve says. “I mean, I can handle it. It’s not like I have flashbacks or anything, mostly. You’ve seen me in the field; you know I’m fine.”

Steve looks back and Tony and blinks. “Oh, yeah, of course. I thought you were being rhetorical.”

“Just making sure you’re paying attention, Cap,” Tony says and tries not to broadcast relief relief relief too obviously. “Anyway, my point is that home is a safe space and all that crap. Whatever you need, you know?”

“Thanks, Tony.” Steve’s smile is soft. “Same to you.”

“Oh, don’t do that. I can offer because you’re a trustworthy person. I, however, will ruthlessly exploit any opening you give me.”

“Undoubtedly,” Steve says, voice dry.

“For example,” Tony says, “It is really fucking cold out here. I need warmth. And you just said--”

Steve snorts and puts an arm around Tony’s shoulders, pulling him in until he’s tucked against Steve’s side.

Tony’s breath catches in his throat. He stays very, very still.

“Sorry, did I read that wrong?” Steve asks, voice pitched somewhere between amusement and concern.

“No. Nope. You read that perfectly,” Tony says, getting himself together and snuggling up against Steve like the champion cuddler he is when Captain America isn’t shorting out his brain. “I just didn’t really think it would be that easy.”

Steve rests his head on Tony’s and hums. “We’re learning all sorts of things about each other tonight, huh?”

“Things I have in common with Steve Rogers: insomnia, post-traumatic stress disorder, and cuddling. Look at me now, Dad.”

“--and care about your friends enough to brave the cold of a new york winter at four a.m. just to bring them bad tea and ask if they’re okay.” Tony feels his face heat up, but Steve can’t see, so it’s fine. Everything’s fine. Be still his beating heart, etc. “Anything else I should know?”

“I’ve had a crush on you since I was eight,” he says, faux-casual. “Maybe earlier.”

Steve laughs, once, and pulls back enough to stare at Tony. (But he doesn’t actually remove his arm from Tony’s shoulders--that’s a good sign, right?) “You did not.”

“I would never lie to Captain America,” Tony says, placing a hand over his heart.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Steve says, a moment later, with another laugh. Tony thinks he might be in shock. “I was just stories and drawings to you, after all. You must be disappointed now.”

“I am deeply disappointed,” Tony says, and Steve half-tenses before he barrels on, “in my own imagination. Never once, in years of daydreaming, did it ever occur to me that you could possibly be snuggly. You are the definition of a life-ruiner, Steve. Offensively perfect.”